iPhones and Eye Tattoos
by IridescentDragoness
Summary: ASOUE-BBC Sherlock cross. And how, exactly, does a detective with a smartphone live at the same time as three orphans who send telegraphs? I don't know, but I hope you'll enjoy this anyway. Set after The Reichenbach Fall, and should be spoiler-free for The Empty Hearse. (Work-in-progress! Feedback appreciated!)
1. Not technically body parts in the sink

Walking into 221b again felt so familiar to John, even after the two years he'd spent... apart. Sherlock still hadn't so much as dusted since he'd been back. A bucket of cleaning supplies in the corner testified to Mrs. Hudson's attempts to tidy up. Other than that, though, the place was mostly as he'd left it, down to the skull on the mantle and the experiments in the sink.

Sherlock was officially back in the flat now, complete with all his former eccentricies. At the moment, he was wearing thick gloves and dangling a vicious-looking leech by the end that was not disgorging blood into a beaker. "Hello, John."

"I..." - did that thing have _teeth_? - "I've found you a new case, Sherlock."

"Oh?" The detective flicked the squirming leech into the sink, the gloves onto the counter, and began wiping his hands. "Nearby?"

"I'm not sure. Someplace called... The Village of Fowl Devotees. Here, look."

Sherlock set down the beaker to take the paper from him, examining the news article. "Three children. I don't do well with children," he reminded John, flicking his fingers irritably. The newspaper wafted to the ground and Sherlock began to turn away.

John nods. "And _these_ children... Sound like little liars. They keep saying there's this man, following them around, who -"

"Wait. What man?"The detective snatched the paper back up. "Did he happen to have an eye tattoo?"

"Think so. As I said, it's all very suspicious. I've been contacted by, well the person who gave us the case, and she says..."

"Nevermind the woman! Tell me about the man. Goatee, salt and pepper hair?" That same intent glint had returned to his eyes, like a bloodhound fresh on the trail or a tiger leaping into a chase.

"I, well, yes." John replied, glancing over the article. "But as I said, there may not be any such man."

"Oh, don't be an idiot. The children are quite correct. The man is a former associate of mine. And closer than you think."


	2. Just follow the bus

Sherlock Holmes had obtained a car. He didn't mention where he'd gotten it, and John knew better than to question things like this. With Mycroft for a brother, it was perfectly plausible that the car was the queen's, because she owed a favor.

It was dark blue in color, spacious, and smelled vaguely of waffles and pine. Sherlock had permitted John to drive so he could better engross himself in... something in the backseat.

"So, where is it that we're going, again?" John dared to ask as fields whisked by out the windows.

"Unless you have a problem with my directions...?" Sherlock warned, flicking through something on his phone.

The doctor sighed. "I just want to know where we're going."

Irately, the detective flung one of the papers onto a nearby seat and dug through the pile on his lap. He no longer appeared to be listening.

John reexamined his directions. Yep, definitely going the right way. Civilization thinned out and the landscape turned dreary. John wasn't even quite sure whether they were still in England. It was nowhere he'd ever been before. The land was flag, dry and hot. Outside, the wind stirred up dust.

Soon after a right turn onto another dirt road, John noticed a large, nearly empty bus on the road ahead.

"Well, follow it." The former army doctor startled at the sudden demand from the backseat. "We're going to the same place." And then, muttering: "Bus of older make - sometime in the nineteen hundreds, been on the road some thirty years plus, bit hard to tell under all the grime. Not used very much, perhaps once every two weeks and only ever on this route. Bus driver's been on this job nearly as long as the bus itself... Comes from around here. Few passengers, most of whom know each other. Dislike of outsiders..."

"And you got all that from the filthy back of a bus..." John shook his head. However long he had known Sherlock Holmes, it was still impressive.

"Obviously. You see, the ruts in the dirt perfectly match the -"

John cut him off. "You don't need to prove it to me." Or do any more showing off.

The bus ahead stopped and opened its doors. No one got out. After a few moments, it trundled off again.

"Towards the town, now. Do you see it, there on the horizon?"

"The bus..." John paused to order his thoughts. "The bus stopped here to allow people off. Doesn't that mean we shere'd get out and walk now?"

"Of course, John. Of course we should. But I plan on making an entrance."


End file.
